


Anything for you, John

by stormonmyskin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospitals, Injured John, Injury, M/M, There are hospitals in this so if that is anyone's trigger please don't read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormonmyskin/pseuds/stormonmyskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fire exposes our priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything for you, John

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is the first Sherlock thing I've ever posted and I'm nervous as heck. There are hospitals and angst in this so if that bothers you steer clear - I don't want to upset anyone. Sherlock might be a little OOC but when John is hurt he is not responsible for his actions, alright? For Jessbear <3

John came to blearily. Where the hell was he now? What? He blinked, and remembered. Of course. The case. Sherlock had gone chasing after the murderer, shouting ‘New Cavendish Street!’ John had hailed a taxi to take him there because his leg was acting up, and then…he remembered a crash, he supposed the cab must have been hit, and not a lot of after that. He hurt though. Still, he got to his feet, staggering a little. He could hear commotion outside, and frowned. He seemed to be quite badly hurt. There was blood on his shirt around his abdomen, too much. His head was throbbing. He couldn’t quite make his right shoulder move – his arm was hanging at a horrible angle. Dislocated shoulder. Didn’t hurt yet, though. It hurt when he breathed. It hurt when he tried to walk.

A man burst into the room and John recognised his voice, remembered hearing it before he blacked out. “You!” the man snarled. “Who gave you permission to stand up?!” He leapt toward John, but John swallowed his pain and caught the man’s arms, twisting him round until his arms were pinned behind his back, and he was forced onto his knees. He moaned slightly. A fine moment for his dislocated shoulder to start protesting.

There was further commotion and Lestrade ran in, closely followed by Sherlock. Both looked immensely shocked to find him there, and even more so to see that John had the man pinned down.  
Lestrade quickly relieved John of the man, cuffing him and handing him over to uniformed, while Sherlock walked towards John with an expression on his face John had never seen before. He had never seen such concern on the man’s features. “John, are you alright?” he asked anxiously.  
John nodded, then realised that of course, he wasn’t alright. He staggered backwards a little, and Lestrade moved towards him, looking worried. Sherlock waved him off. “John, John, come here,” Sherlock murmured, reaching out to his friend, who had gone very pale. “John?”  
Without another word, John began to fall, his body giving out on him. Sherlock flung himself forwards with the grace of a gazelle and caught John, steadying him before lowering them both to the ground. “Ambulance,” he said brusquely to Lestrade, who was already on the phone calling for one, while Sherlock nestled John’s head in his lap, unspeakably frightened. John could not leave him. He had to be alright.

Lestrade knocked on the door of the hospital room, and went in. John was lying in the bed, very still. In a coma, the doctor had said. The knock to the head had caused a brain bleed and swelling and it was strongly touch and go as to whether John was going to make it, for a while. He’d also lost a massive amount of blood from the knife wound to his abdomen.  
Sherlock was, of course, sitting next to John’s bed. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he was paler than usual – which was saying something. One hand was curled around John’s, and the other rested limply in his lap, and was trembling.  
Lestrade brushed his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You alright?”  
Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him, but he didn’t speak. Just that one look told Lestrade that no, Sherlock was really not alright. He plonked himself down the other side of John. John had been here for three days already, and as far as Lestrade knew, Sherlock hadn’t left his side.  
“Has there been any change?” he asked softly. Sherlock shook his head mutely. Greg nodded, and cast his eyes down, running a hand over his face before watching the prone body of John for a short while. John was very pale, too pale, and it pained Lestrade to look at him.

The door opened with a neat click and Mycroft strolled in. “How is he?” he asked serenely. Sherlock made no move to talk, didn’t even react to Mycroft’s entrance, so Lestrade answered.  
“There’s…been no change. They’re just waiting. To see if he will wake up.”  
“I see,” Mycroft announced. He watched Sherlock more closely than John, though. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock did not even so much as flinch. He did not take his eyes off John’s chest, moving steadily up and down. Lestrade stood up and went to talk to Mycroft. “He’s…not taking it well. He…after John collapsed, he demanded I call an ambulance…which I already was, but he hasn’t said a word since then.”  
“Hmm,” Mycroft sighed. “That _is_ worrying. Are you staying, or do you have to go?”  
Lestrade hesitated. “Well, I can stay for a while. I’ve got quite a bit of paperwork to do, though, and I’ve got to question the bastard that did this to John.”  
“Of course. Well…would you be able to keep an eye on Sherlock for me? He is likely to respond quite badly to this.”  
“I thought he didn’t care about people.”  
“Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade, John has never been ‘people’, has he?” he said with a tight smile. Greg nodded, and went to sit down again.

 

It was a long three days before John woke up, and Sherlock did not speak the whole time. He did not eat, or sleep, either, despite the fact that Mycroft repeatedly threatened to have him sedated and tube-fed. Lestrade managed to keep the peace, vaguely, managing to persuade Sherlock to keep drinking water with the excuse that John would not like to wake up to find Sherlock had died of dehydration, and convincing Mycroft to leave Sherlock alone. An angry Sherlock was not what they needed.

So Sherlock was at John’s side, holding his hand, when John made a sleepy noise in the back of his throat and shifted slightly, opening his eyes and squinting against the bright light of hospital room. Sherlock was making soothing noises instantly, and let go of John’s hand, pouring a cup of water with a straw and placing it to John’s lips. John sucked thirstily, eager to hydrate his dry mouth and cracked lips. His tongue felt furry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. The water was divine.  
“Thank you,” he croaked to Sherlock, who was being uncharacteristically gentle with him. He’d pressed the button to call for the nurse, who came in at that point, delighted over John being awake, and gave him a brief check over, paging John’s doctor to give a more thorough check.

The doctor was a very professional looking consultant, in a crisp suit and tie under his lab coat. He flicked through the numbers of John’s machines, and smiled at him. He obviously knew John was a doctor, for he did not hesitate to talk to John in fluent medicine-speak.

“Your O2 sats look good, John. Your BP is a little lower than we’d like, but that’s to be expected. You sustained a subcutaneous knife wound to the lower left abdomen, you lost a lot of blood, too much, to be honest, but you’ve had multiple blood transfusions, and they should help get that BP up soon. Your temperature is normal; we’ve got you on antibiotics, so that’s taking care of that.”  
“How long was I in a coma?” John asked.  
“Just over 6 days,” the consultant replied. “I have to say, I was anxious after the first 24 hours showed no sign of improvement, but it seems it was more a case of waiting for the cerebral swelling to reduce, and the haemorrhaging to stop. I am hopeful, nay, confident, that you should make a full recovery. You’ll probably stay here a few more days, before being moved to a main ward for a few days, before discharge. Barring complications, of course, but you’re a fit and healthy man; there shouldn’t be too many issues.”  
“Okay. Thank you, doctor,” John said, settling back into his pillows. The doctor went away and left them alone, but Sherlock still could not find his voice. He sat, quiet, hunched over.

“Are you alright?” John asked with a frown. Sherlock nodded, and reclaimed John’s hand, cradling it between both of his own. He kept his eyes on his hands, unable to meet John’s eye. “Sherlock?” John’s voice was slightly lower, indicating his losing patience. When Sherlock still did not speak, he pulled his hand from Sherlock grip and tilted Sherlock’s face up by his chin to look at him.

Sherlock held steady for a few moments, before squirming away, resuming his previous pose with a shake of his head, to indicate he was not okay to talk about it. John sighed, and allowed Sherlock to worship his hand. Clearly Sherlock was deeply shaken, and John sensed it would not be good to push him. He was actually rather touched. So Sherlock _did_ care, after all.

Sherlock did not say a word in the three hours he sat at John’s side before Mycroft arrived. John chattered easily at Sherlock, his fingers drawing patterns on Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock sat, still as a statue, responding to nothing.

 

In fact, even when Mycroft came in, delighting over John being awake again, Sherlock gave no indication he’d even noticed him. Mycroft narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then smiled at John indulgently. “How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?”  
“Y’know, tired. Achy. Sore. It feels like my stomach’s been run over by a lorry. But they give you the good stuff here.” He gestured to the morphine drip with a smile.

Mycroft came round the bed and sat down opposite Sherlock. John had already seen him eye up their joined hands, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he just snagged John’s chart from the end of the bed and began to read. “Hmm,” he said, folding the pages back and replacing it. “I see they are planning to move you to a main ward for a few days before discharging you. Will you be alright at Baker Street with my brother taking care of you?”  
John nodded. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need much taking care of; maybe some help with the stairs, and cups of tea made. He’ll be more of a servant than a carer,” he said with a smirk. Sherlock stayed hunched over John’s hand, unmoving. Mycroft’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, before returning to John.  
“I should very much like to see that,” he smiled pleasantly. “I will, of course, be on speed dial should you require any further assistance. You know how Sherlock is when he’s bored…if you need him at home he won’t be able to take any cases for a few weeks…” Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t envy you, John.”

Sherlock snapped, spinning round furiously and glaring at Mycroft. “Well maybe you _should_ , because I will be making sure John gets the best damn care he possibly can, I will be there _whenever_ he needs me, and I will help gladly and without complaint, _do you understand_?!”  
John looked alarmed. “Hey, Sher…Sherlock? It’s okay…”  
Sherlock spun back round to face John. “No, it’s _not_ okay, John, you nearly died! I sat next to you for almost a _week_ while you were in a coma, thinking that you might not wake up! It’s many things, but it is _not_ okay!” he bellowed, his face reddening with repressed rage. He kicked his chair back and stormed from the room.  
John’s eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into his hairline as he stared after Sherlock in shock.  
“Don’t mind him, John,” Mycroft said softly. “He’s just scared. We nearly lost you.”  
“It’s just not like him, is all.” But he remembered Sherlock’s face when he’d found him in that building, and knew that whatever it was, it was very much Sherlock, just a side of him he’d never seen before.  
“Just let him take care of you,” Mycroft advised. “I’d best be off. Feel better soon.”

John lay alone for half an hour, until a doctor came in. “Hello, Dr Watson. How are you feeling?” It was the doctor from earlier, Dr Bennett, and he frowned over Sherlock’s absence. “Where did Mr Holmes go?”  
John shrugged. “I don’t know. He shouted a bit and then stormed out. But his brother came to visit and they have never got on well.”  
“Oh,” the doctor looked bemused. “Well. How are things with you?”  
“Yeah, they’re…okay. I’m feeling rather tired and weak, but apart from that…”  
“Well, that’s to be expected, don’t you think?” Dr Bennett gave a slight smile. “I’m afraid I need to borrow you for a little while. I need to do another batch of scans just to check everything is progressing as it should. You still have a little swelling on the brain, and significant contusions. And perhaps an x-ray to have a look at those ribs. I didn’t mention it in the presence of Mr Holmes, but you were extremely lucky your lung wasn’t punctured. It was a close thing.” John looked sheepish, but then his face settled into something almost stubborn.  
“I want to walk. I don’t want to go on a bed.”  
“John, I rather think…”  
“No. No bed. If you have to, wheelchair. But I’m not going in this thing.” As if to prove his point, he sat up further. The doctor watched as he went pale, and shook his head firmly.  
“You have only today woken up from a _coma_ , John. You are in no state to be wandering around a hospital, in a wheelchair or not. I’m afraid I must insist.”

John sulked the whole way there.

 

When they returned, Sherlock was haranguing one of the nurses, demanding to know where John had been taken. “He’s just _gone_ , you can’t tell me you don’t know where, you people are supposed to be _competent_!” he was hissing.  
“Sherlock,” John called when he was in earshot.  
Sherlock whirled round, and was at John’s side in a second. “John? Where have you been? How are you feeling? Are you okay?”  
John was not feeling too well. His blood pressure was too low and the doctor wanted to get him back and get him on a saline drip. He’d be damned if he was going to tell Sherlock this, though.  
“I’m fine, Sherlock. Just went for some scans to see how things are.”  
“And?”  
“It’s fine, it’s all okay.” He was lying through his teeth. The doctor had been disappointed with the amount of swelling and bruising on his brain still, and he’d had to tape up John’s ribs again, unhappy with the way they were healing. That had hurt, and John was still a little breathless from the pain.

As the doctor got him settled back into his room, he raised an eyebrow at John, clearly asking why he had lied. Sherlock had been told to wait outside while he got John settled, so John murmured, “I don’t want to worry him. He’s a bit freaked out by it all. No need to stress him even further. Ohh, that’s good,” he groaned as the doctor upped his morphine and went in search of a saline drip.

Sherlock bustled in and resumed his seat by John’s side. He did not speak or make any attempt to touch John, and once the doctor had returned with the saline drip – ignoring Sherlock’s demands to know what it was for – John leaned back in his pillows, and succumbed to sleep, leaving Sherlock clueless, and worrying.

 

Sherlock was still at his side when he woke, and he looked stressed. “You okay?” John asked sleepily.  
Sherlock’s head snapped up when he heard John’s voice. “You’re awake,” he breathed.  
“Er…yes. Why, did something happen?”  
“No, no. You’ve been asleep about six hours. It’s just that the doctor won’t tell me anything and you’re on a saline drip and extra morphine and I don’t like it.”  
John fought very hard to not roll his eyes. “I asked the doctor not to tell you anything so that you wouldn’t freak out on me again,” he said with a smile. “I’m okay, Sherlock. My blood pressure was a little low, hence the saline drip. He re-taped my ribs, and in case you don’t know, that bloody hurts, so that’s why he put me on more morphine. He wasn’t happy with the brain scans but resting helps, and that’s why I’ve been to sleep.” He was a lot more upbeat now the morphine was blocking the pain from his ribs.  
Sherlock still looked disquieted. “What do you mean he wasn’t happy with the brain scans?”  
John smiled at the worry on Sherlock’s face. It was nice to feel cared for. “More swelling and bruising still than he’d like. But it’s okay. It’s going down. Just a bit more slowly than we’d hoped. Means I’ll be in here a couple more days, I imagine.”  
Sherlock’s brow puckered in concern, and his fingers wrapped themselves back round John’s hand. “I need you better, and I need you home,” he said, very, very softly. “That’s all I care about.”  
John reached out and patted Sherlock’s shoulder awkwardly, and when Sherlock met his eyes, John’s were very soft and warm. “Okay,” he said with a smile. “I’ll do that for you, and in return, you take care of yourself properly for me, eh?”  
Sherlock’s other hand came up to the bed and began to trace idle patterns into the skin on the back of John’s hand, taking care to be mindful of the IV drip. “Anything for you, John.”


End file.
